


Witness

by 9liseraph6



Category: The Walking Dead
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Merle is his own warning i guess, Slow Burn, graphic description of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-10-15 14:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17530199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9liseraph6/pseuds/9liseraph6
Summary: Paul becomes the principal witness in an attempt murder case that is somehow linked to the Dixon's family, and so Daryl himself, a childhood friend from a foster home both boys had been entrusted to, for different reasons, 26 years ago.





	1. Prologue Part I - The witness

The sun had set for hours already when Paul, who hadn't had a good night sleep in weeks, forced himself to go to bed, determined to get no less than five hours of sleep, which he knew in advance was probably not going to happen. But Paul was an optimistic kind of man, and also very stubborn, so he decided tonight was the night he would finally get a much needed rest. Tomorrow was going to be his first day as a full time sports teacher in a high shcool, two hours away in public transports from his flat, and he needed all the energy he could get if he hoped to convince 15 to 18 years old kids doing some exercice was good for them. And he wasn't going to convince anyone in the state he had been lately. He needed to get back on track. He had a job now, finally. After spending over a year unemployed, Paul couldn't ruin this for himself. And he could use some stability when it came to money, too.

He glanced at the alarm clock for the eighth time since he went to bed. It was now 2:30 AM and Paul had to be up and ready to go to work in less than three hours. He punched the nightstand in exasperation before he could stop himself, allowing the alarm clock to fall onto the ground and to break itself. Instead of yielding to the temptation to destroy his entire bedroom, Paul sat down and began doing his breathing exercises that his therapist taught him when he was still a kid.

After he had lost his parents in a accident and had been entrusted to a foster home to take care of him, it was required of Paul to see a therapist at least twice a week for a year. He had been reluctant at first, not wanting to talk about his dead parents with a complete stranger, and also because denial was easier to handle than to actually deal with the tragedy that had befallen him. The 10-year-old boy ended up taking a liking to the therapist, a man in his thirties that didn't mind Paul staying quiet during some of their sessions or spend the entire hour drawing or writing poems. As a kid, Paul had wanted to be a poet.

The exercices helped him calm down a little and he could lay back on his back to try and sleep again. He would get the alarm clock fixed tomorrow after his class.

He unlocked his phone that he found on the floor next to the bed, and saw it was now 2:55 AM. He put the phone down and stared at the celling for a couple minutes, thinking maybe he could call in sick and stay home all day instead of going to work.

3:01 and Paul contemplated to go back to drinking. He had always slept like a baby when drunk.

3:10 and Paul was finally falling asleep when he heard a gunshot outside in the street. He first thought he must had dreamt it but then, he heard the terrible sound of a man groaning in pain and screaming for help. He promptly got up from his bed and carefully proceeded to open the only window in the room and take a look. From the second floor, he was able to see the man well enough. Though it was too dark to see where exactly the man had been shot. The poor guy seemed like he was in agony. Paul put himself together again after a few seconds, took his phone and called the Police, all the while keeping an eye on the wounded guy. They told him to stay indoors and that they'd be here soon with an ambulance, then they thanked him for calling and hung up before Paul could say anything more. He looked at the time on his phone screen; 3:14 AM. He stayed at the window until the Police and Ambulance came, and their cars' lights blinded him, his eyes used to the dark by now, and after one last look at the man that was being transported into the ambulance, Paul went back to bed, even though he knew he would definitely not be able to fall asleep after that.


	2. Prologue Part II : The witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The papers say the police may have three potential witnesses in the Failed Attempt Murder's case, including Paul Rovia. The name bring back old and painful memories to Daryl Dixon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is Daryl's chapter. It takes place two days after the attempted murder. Hope you enjoy this little introduction !  
> Good reading !

"Excuse me, sir ? Are you going to pay for this ?" 

 

Daryl was so absorbed in his reading that he hadn't noticed the store was about to close its doors. The manager was getting a bit impatient, she was sighing through her nose repeatidly to let Daryl know how much.  
While the cashier lady addressed him in a much gentler tone when he approached her, as if she had to compensate for her superior's aggressive tone. Daryl guessed it must have had happen more than once.

The name badge above her right breast indicated Daryl her name was Sacha. He only took a brief look at it, though, not wanting the woman to think he was some kind of pervert. She smiled kindly at him and took the newspapers, proceeding to cash it in. After a short time of reflection, he added two bottles of vodka that he quickly grabbed from the shelf near the counter. He didn't meet the cashier's eyes then.

 

He walked back to his own shop, the newspapers in one hand and the vodka in a plastic bag in the other. Daryl liked the place, it was an old but well-preserved repair workshop that a friend of his had sold him for a fair enough price three years ago. Over time, the ex-biker came to consider the place same as home, spending more time at work than in the actual mess of a house he had inherited when his parents died years ago. He couldn't drive anymore, but he took pleasure in restoring old bikes or cars for those who still could. Sometimes, when hitting the road was missing him too much, he would take his old motorbike to an almost always deserted alley near the shop and just sat his ass down on it, pretending he was going to start the engine and ride until gas ran out and he was far away from this city he resented so much.

Today was not one of those days. Nostalgia did hit him in the face when he had seen the front page of the newspapers he had bought earlier, but not the good old one he felt when it was about riding his old bike.  
He looked at it again, sitting behind his desk.

The title read : "ATTEMPTED MURDER FAILED CASE, POLICE DIFFUSE POTENTIAL SUSPECT'S PHOTOFIT PICTURE"  
There was a picture of the man at the bottom that Daryl thought could look like just anybody and nobody at the same time. It wasn't going to be helpful. But it's not the photograph that had caught his attention, but the article that spoke of one witness, out of the three that had made a statement according to the papers, that had informed the police of the attack, allowing them to get to the scene before the victim died of blood loss. The papers had carelessly given his name; Paul Rovia.

 

Daryl had known a Rovia, a life time ago. They had been introduced to each other when they were only kids. Daryl didn't like to think about that time. He had been separated from his family for over a year to be given up to this creepy old couple in this, way too full of other kids, big house that at the time reminded him of a residential school for naughty children that needed to learn discipline the hard way. Although it wasn't like that at all, Daryl had hated being sent to that place all the same, no matter how many candies that old creepy dude and his creepier old wife would offer him.  
This whole story went back to more than twenty years ago, and Daryl wasn't sure the Rovia he met back then was the same they were mentionning in the papers. There must have had plenty of other Rovias around the States, after all.

The article ended with the same bullshit Daryl was used to read in just any police statement : "Police Officer Julian Brans informed the press this morning that they will not rest until the shooter has been apprehended."

He closed the papers, decided to try and forget about the memories the name Rovia had awaken in him, and proceeded to call Sam, one of his clients that still hadn't turned up to pay for the repairs Daryl had made on her car two weeks ago. Clients that promised to pay later and never did, Daryl had known too much of those. He wasn't going to let that girl get away with this. The phone on his ear, he patiently waited for an answer that came after the third ringing beep.

 

"Yeah" a sleepy voice answered that Daryl didn't recognise. "Hello ?"

 

Before answering he checks out the time on his watch and saw it was ten to midnight. Maybe not the right time to call a client.

 

"It's Daryl. Daryl Dixon. I need to speak to Samantha Rose. Is she here ?"  
"Do you know what time is it, asshole ?" she spits out after a brief pause.  
"Is she here or not ?" Daryl asks impatiently.  
"Fuck off."

 

She hung up before Daryl could retort. He dialed the number again, decided to get his money back by tomorrow. He really needed that money.

 

"Are you fucking kidding me ? Call in the morning, Jesus Christ !" the girl shouted at the phone.  
"Sam gave me this number, and I need to speak to her."  
"Listen, Sam's a bitch that gives all of her exes' numbers to guys that hit on her just for fun. Let it go, alright ? That girl's a psycho."

 

This time when she hung up, Daryl didn't call back. Instead, he looked through his text messages with his brother, Merle, nicknamed "Dick" on his phone, and stopped to stare at one received text in particular.  
The text read : "4th Sept at 8"  
Daryl checked the date in the calender that hunged on the wall at his back. The 4th of September was tomorrow. He sighed, glanced at the plastic bag at his feet for a whole minute before breaking the promise he had made to his mother before she died and opening the first bottle. When the liquor touched his tongue and entered his system, Daryl felt sick to his stomach. Yet, he drank the whole thing, and when he was finished, he proceeded to start the second bottle, deciding he hadn't had enough.


	3. The three witnesses

The morning that followed the shooting, Paul had been summoned to the police station alongside two of his neighbours, Colleen and Sacha, the first living on the floor above Paul's flat and the second being on the groundfloor. He had never really spoken to them before, save for the usual "hello" from time to time when they happened to cross paths in the hallways.  
Paul got the call from Officer Brans a couple minutes after his first lesson at around 11AM. It hadn't really been a lesson, so to speak, but more of an introduction to what the pupils could expect this year in gym; Basketball, Running and going to the swimming pool once a month among other exercices Paul had prepared during the summer holidays.   
The headmaster, Mr. Gravin, Scott, had found a bit unnerving the fact that the guy he had just hired was forced to leave work earlier on his first day, which also happened to be the start of school as well, because his new employee was expected at the police station. Nevertheless, he had no choice but to give him the rest of the day off, and allowed Paul to be at the police station a quarter to 1:00PM.

Colleen had visibly already been there for a while Paul judged by the way she tightly crossed her arms around her chest and the irritated look she had in her eyes when entered the police station. She spotted Paul after he had stated his business to the reception desk staff. The young woman gave him a little smile in what looked more like an effort to courtesy than anything. He sat down in the chair next to her, which seemed to confound her a little. Paul noticed the little red spots starting to appear on both of her cheeks. She must have felt herself going red in the face, for she quickly rearranged her long black hair in a way that kept Paul from seeing it. He thought about going and sit somewhere else but he feared she would take it the wrong way and did nothing, cursing himself for having chosen to sit by her in the first place.

 

***

Paul's phone indicated 1:07PM when two officers finally came and took them to the Chief Official Julian Brans. Sacha had showed up not long after Paul, visibly as uncomfortable as Paul and Colleen to be here. She was wearing her cashier's uniform. Like Paul, she must had been called upon while she was at work.  
Officer Brans's office was smaller than Paul would had thought. He saw two pictures of what he assumed was the man's three kids, two little adorable twin girls and their quite handsome teenage brother. They looked exactly like their father; same green eyes and blond hair, although Brans's hair were going a bit grey on the sides. The Chief Official seemed nice enough to Paul, or not like a douchebag at the very least, and invited the three witnesses to take a sit and he even proposed them coffee and biscuits. All had gratefully accepted his kind offer.

 

"I should first tell you that the man that was shot last night is alive, but not in a enough stable state as of now to testify against his aggressor." Brans's informed them. His voice was clear and commanding, but not unkind. "You are here because you have seen, or partially seen the murder attempt on the person of Evan Shaw on September the first, as per your own saying to my colleagues. Is that correct ?"

 

Sacha and Paul both nodded positively. Paul had not been contacted by Brans's colleagues, but he had been the one calling the police that night. Once he had finished explaining the Officer this, Colleen opened her mouth to speak.

 

"I didn't see it happen," she declared anxiously, "but I saw the shooter. He had dark hair,"  
"It was a man, then." Brans concluded more to himself than anyone else, cutting Colleen off in the middle of her sentence.  
"Yes, a dark-haired, white man. Of that I am certain."  
"Dark hair," he said under his breath while he was writing the description. "caucasian. Eyes ?"  
"I didn't see them. I live on the third floor and most of the lights in this neighbourhood don't even work. You barely see anything at night."

 

The description was not going to be very helpful. Paul met dark-haired caucasian guys everyday on the streets, and he knew it was the same for the other people living in this city, too. The only relevant detail Paul could tell the officer was the time when the murder attempt was committed, between 3 and 3:10AM. Sacha, much like Paul, had not seen much either. She had heard the shot, as it had waken her, but by the time she was at her window, the shooter had already run away. Colleen was asked to stay a little longer while Paul and Sacha were free to go. They had the instruction to call the station immediately if anything they may have had forgotten now came to their minds later about that night. Brans also advised them not to talk to the press, so that their identities remained unknown to the public, and to the shooter himself, as well. When Sacha had brought up the subject of their safety, as direct witnesses of a crime, Brans reassured her. Officers would be in close proximity of their appartment at all times until the shooter was arrested.

 

"I can drive you home if you want," Sacha offered kindly to Paul the moment they got out of the station.  
"No, it's fine. You gotta go back to work and so do I." Paul lied, smiling as to make it more convincing.  
"As you wish." She returned his smile, and went on her way to her car.

 

Paul hated public transport, and he hated them even more when he saw at what time the next bus was supposed to take him back home. But getting inside of a car was just out of question. Last time he was in one, a fire truck had violently hit it, killing both his parents on the spot right in front of his eyes. The images of the car accident had haunted his nights for years after that. His father, who had not put on his safety belt, had been ejected off his seat, and half his body passed through the windshield. His mother, always cautious, had put her belt on, and had urged Paul to do the same. It didn't stop her from breaking her neck all the same, though. Paul, at the back, had got out of the crash with a broken arm and multiple bruises and cuts on different parts of his body. But he had lived. And his parents hadn't. He had been 10 years old at the time, 10 years old when his life had been completely turned over.

 

****

 

On the 4th of September, 6:30AM, Daryl's phone alarm went off. He almost threw the damn thing out the open window of his workshop office near the desk he had been sleeping on, but came around right in time. He turned off the alarm, pushed himself off his chair with a bit of reluctance and proceeded to take a quick shower.  
Outside, at the back of the workshop there was a large area, safe from prying eyes, where Daryl stored all the clients' vehicules he had to work on. There were only 2 motorcycles and one mountain bike at the moment, plus his own personal motorbike, but there was enough space to store at least 20 cars.   
When he spent the night at the office, which was something that happened very regularly, Daryl would use the garden hose to wash himself. The water felt cold, almost icy cold on his warm body, but Daryl had got used to it by now and didn't mind it much anymore. He found it even helped him clear his mind. Once he was done, he grabbed one of the towels he would use on his motorbike when he washed it to dry himself, then he put on the same clothes he wore yesterday.   
He glimpsed his face in the mirror in the entrance hall of the workshop when he got back in. He looked like shit. He felt like shit, too. His head hurt from drinking too much last night and he was disgusted with himself for breaking his promise to his mother.   
She had died the day after Daryl turned 21. Merle had come for his birthday, and even brought some of his friends, too. Their piece of shit of a father had died 3 years before that, but Daryl had really felt free when he had turned 21 years old. That night, Merle's friends encouraged him to drink and drink until he couldn't even stand straight. That had made Merle laugh hard for the rest of the evening, but it hadn't pleased their mum. When Merle had fallen asleep on the couch after his friends had left, and the house was quieter than it had ever been, Daryl's mum came to sit by his bedside, taken some hair off his face and given him a tender kiss on the forehead. She had never been what you would consider the maternal type. And as far as Daryl could remember at the time, she had never been affectionate towards him or Merle growing up. He remembered her eyes, then, right after she had given her youngest son a small gesture of affection for the first time, they were bright and sad and full of love all at the same time. 

 

"You're a good boy, Daryl. Better than your dad ever been, or that your brother ever could be. You can't become like them. You gotta be better. The drinking, the smoking, the drugs..." Daryl looked down in shame when she had mentioned all of these, letting him know she had known about those all along. "it has to stop. Do you understand ?" Daryl had only nodded, his throat too tight to speak. "Promise me. Promise me you ain't gonna end up like them. Promise me you'll be better."  
"I promise." Daryl had whispered in his mother's ears.

That had been when Daryl told his mother he loved her for the first time in his life, realising he did love her while he had said it to her. She had allowed herself to cry a little then, something Daryl suspected she had never done, and had kissed Daryl's forehead again and left. The following morning, Daryl heard Merle snapping the door shut with such force when leaving the house that he had known, then, that something terrible had happened. Daryl had instinctively run to his mother's room, and discovered her lifeless, naked and horribly pale body on the bed, the only colours left on it being the red of the now dried blood on her wrists and legs.

 

Daryl picked up the papers and looked at the name "Paul Rovia" written among the other witnesses'. He hadn't paid much attention to the others, and he had a bad feeling when he saw the name "Sacha Williams". It could be just another coincidence. Again, there were plenty of Sachas in the city other than the girl he had seen at the store the previous night. His phone buzzed on his desk, and Daryl rushed to answer the call before he missed it. "Dick" was calling.

 

"I'll be there on time, just gotta take care of something first." Daryl uttered before Merle could talk.  
"Relax, baby brother." he chuckled. "I don't need your money no more. You keep it."  
"What ?"  
"Sold some stuff to some desperate bitch for a good price, if you know what I mean."

 

Daryl relaxed a little, though he wasn't really happy Merle had to sell drugs again to pay his debts. He had promised Daryl he wouldn't do it again. He glanced at the empty bottles of vodka at his feet. It seemed both Dixon brothers were shit at promises. 

 

***

 

Sacha had knocked on his door early on this Sunday morning. Paul had wished to sleep in and spend the day watching tv shows and eating pizzas, wishes that ended the moment Paul had opened the door and heard the reason that had brought Sacha here. She had brought a newspapers dated from yesterday with her and looked furious.

 

"Serve and protect my ass ! Look at this !"

 

Paul had read the whole thing twice, completely baffled to what was written on the papers. Officer Brans had assured them they would be safe, but he let the press communicating their names to the public.  
Paul gestured for Sacha to come inside, which she did. Calming herself down a little, she sinked into one of two armchairs Paul possessed and hid her face in her hands for a few seconds, sighed and looked back at Paul.

 

"The guy that did this, he's probably reading the news. What do we do if he finds us ?" she said more calmly, though still a bit agitated. "I don't trust Brans and his guys. I took a walk around the neighbourhood yesterday, I didn't see any police car. Didn't he say there would be people watching at all times ? Where are they ? I don't see anyone ensuring our safety. The freaking guy is on the loose and now he knows our names ! What the hell are they thinking ?"

 

When she had finished her ranting, Paul sat on the opposite armchair and sighed. That was definitely not good for them. Suddenly, he thought of Colleen.

 

"You've told Colleen about this ?" he asked her.  
"No." a brief pause. "She wouldn't answer the door. To be honest with you, I'm worried about her. According to the caretaker, she never came back after her visit to the police."

 

Now Paul understood the reason why Sacha had been so nervous. For a long time, both stayed silent. Paul read the papers more closely.

 

"Hold on..."  
"What it is ?" she asked as she got up from her seat and got closer.  
"It says here that I'm the principal witness. And they don't precise which one of us has actually seen the shooter. Don't you think if the guy that did this really wanted to go after someone, I would be the target ?"  
"I don't know." Sacha said after thinking about it.  
"It'd be more logical to get to me first, wouldn't it ? Colleen's probably gone visiting some friends or family."

 

Paul's reasoning relaxed Sacha a little, he could see.

 

"I'm still gonna call Brans. We need some kind of protection, now more than ever. We're exposed."

 

She took the newspapers from Paul and headed to the door. Paul went and opened it for her.

 

"Look," she said. "if you hear about Collen, would you let me know ?"  
"Of course." Paul assured her.

 

On his own again after Sacha had left the flat, Paul suddenly felt a wave of panic going through his whole body. The media had somehow learnt that he was the one that had called the police, and refered to him as the principal witness of the case. He locked the door and went back to his bedroom, determined to try and forget about the whole thing for the time being and get some much needed sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this third chapter !


	4. Taking Actions

"Since when have you stopped taking your medications ?"  
"I didn't need them, anymore. I'd stopped having nightmares, and..." Paul began defensively.

 

He hadn't consulted a psychiatrist in years, and Paul felt a little bit uneasy.

 

"I had a drinking problem. But I'm fine now. I stopped the medications around the time I first started to drink."  
"When was that ?" the doctor inquired.

 

Paul didn't like how intently she was studying his face, his every movements, the way he reacted to her questions. He took a deep breath and tried to relax all of the muscles of his body before answering. He thought about lying for a fraction of second, then settled on telling the truth.

 

"I started drinking around the age of 14." he mumbled, evasively meeting the doctor's dark almond shaped eyes that seemed like they could see right through him.  
"So, at the age of 14, you stopped the treatment you had been prescribed for anxiety and sleeping problems and started drinking alcohol instead, is that correct ?"

 

Paul nodded. He felt like a child that had been caught doing something he shouldn't have.

 

"When did you stop drinking ?"  
"I've been sober for over a year. About 14 months, I'd say."  
"What made you stop ?" she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

 

Paul sighed heavily. He didn't want to talk about how he had lost his old job because of his drinking problems, and how that was what had led him to stop. It wasn't the reason why he had taken an appointment with a psychiatrist in the first place. His nightmares had come back, and with his new work at school, the accumulated lack of sleep, plus the "Failed Murder Attempt" case starting to make a lot of noise within the little city he was living in, Paul couldn't handle it anymore. He needed strong sleeping pills and medications for his anxiety that he could only have with a doctor's prescription. He didn't need a therapy. At least, he tried to convince himself that he didn't.

 

"Listen, Doctor Hernandez, I'm only here because my general practitioner has gone on holidays. I just need you, please, to allow me to get back on medications again so I can sleep and not lose the job I've only got like, a week ago. This is really important to me, this job, you know."

 

Hernandez nodded in understanding and stayed silent for a few seconds. She opened the notebook resting on her laps and started writing something on it. Then, she stood up from the chair she had been sitting in opposite to Paul and took out sheets from one of the drawers in her desk. From where he was sitting, Paul could see what she had taken were prescription papers, to which he couldn't help but smile at. He was finally going to sleep again.

 

"Here." she handed him the prescription. "But I would very much like if you came back for a session sometime before the end of the month, Paul. You've been diagnosed with severe anxiety, and although medication will help, talking about what is causing those concerns you might have, as well as the insomnia you've been experiencing lately, can be of great help, too. If not greater."  
"Thank you. I'll think about it." Paul told her. And he meant it.

 

***

 

His brother was helping himself with Daryl's food in his fridge, as he usually did when he would come over, while talking about some girl he had met in a bar the previous night and all the "crazy shit" she had done to him. Daryl half smirked, half sighed, Merle would never change. He only hoped the girl in question was over 18. His brother had enough problems with the laws to add one more offence to his criminal record.

 

"Merle," Daryl called, serious now. "You heard some' about the shooting down Decan Street ?"

 

Merle stared. He put down the jar of pickles he was eating from, licked his fingers and fell heavily on their parents' old couch, the only furniture Daryl had kept from the time they were still alive. Merle hated what he had done to the house, even said once he had made the place look more horrendous than it was before. But Daryl didn't care what it looked like, as long as it didn't remind him too much of his shitty years as a child in this house he was happy. For some reason, Daryl hadn't felt the need to get rid of the couch, though. So he kept it.

 

"I might've." Merle answered after a while, a strange look in his eyes. The kind Daryl didn't like. "What about it ?"  
"You heard they had a physical description of the guy ? The shooter."

 

Daryl observed Merle's reaction, which told him everything he needed to know. Merle knew who was behind it. He knew the shooter. It couldn't have been Merle, he looked nothing like the suspect. Still, him being implicated in a murder attempt could make him go back to jail, and Daryl knew that with all the records he had, he would probably stay locked up for the rest of his life. He hated Merle, but he didn't want his brother to die in prison.

 

"Been on the news the whole week. I watch tv same as you, baby brother." Merle sighed. "Look, you don't need to get involved." he then added, so serious it took Daryl aback. "It's all being taking care of."  
"What do you mean ?"

 

Merle got up again to face Daryl and look him in the eye. He smiled at him the way he used to when they were kids and he would drag him along in his shitty plans, as if to say "don't worry, it'll be fun, nothing's gonna happen to us".

 

"A friend of mine, he says only one girl really saw what happened."  
"A friend of yours..." Probably some dirty cop Merle's band had corrupted, Daryl had no doubt. "Is she dead ?" he couldn't help but ask, fearing the worse.  
"I ain't gonna lie to you, man, she probably is."  
"You don't know for sure ?" Daryl had thought Merle could have been employed to do the dirty work, thus all the money he got in only one day. Murder paid well, Daryl knew that much.

 

Merle only shrugged and resumed eating pickles. Daryl knew he wouldn't say anything more than what he already said and so didn't push it. But now he knew exactly what he had to do. He needed to find the other two witnesses and make sure they were safe. He thought of Rovia, and at the day he had first met him back when Daryl had been sent to the foster home.

Rovia and the other kids had been waiting for his arrival, and greeted Daryl warmly when he had got out of the car that had brought him. They were all younger than him, all being between 5 and 12 year old girls and boys. The then 10 year-old Rovia had awaken the 16-year-old Daryl's curiosity right away. He had greeted him politely, but his face was hard and showed no emotion, much like Daryl's own.

 

If the Rovia they talked about in the press was really the one he had known, and that there was a chance he could be the shooter's people next target, Daryl couldn't just stand by and do nothing. He owed the guy too much. Merle had resumed talking about the "bitches" he had met in bars for over an hour after that, but Daryl's mind was too preoccupied to really pay attention to his boring brother's sex life stories.

 

***

 

Sacha had come back and visit Paul twice the previous week to check on Paul and ask if he had heard of Colleen. He hadn't heard of her, nor had the building's caretaker. This whole thing had started to get on his nerves, he was feeling himself slowly giving in to panic. Sacha acting all paranoid was not helping. She had told Paul she felt followed wherever she went, but that she was certain it wasn't the police.

Although Paul was feeling less and less safe everyday, Sacha's visit to the Officer Brans had a good effect. Policemen were watching the street day and night. Paul peeked outside his bedroom's window to make sure they were still here. Once he had caught sight of them, he proceeded to get ready for work. He looked himself over in the mirror and decided last minute to tie his long hair tightly to the back of his head, ponytail style.  
He arrived early at work, greeted the few students already here in the hallways and locked himself up in the men's bathroom. Since he was alone in there, he started doing his breathing exercices to help and calm his growing anxiety. He had been taking his medications for three days now, and despite the still ongoing anxiety, Paul had finally been able to sleep all night these last few days. When he had finished with the breathing exercices, that was when the school bell decided to ring. He took a deep breath, exhales calmly through his nostrils, and left the bathroom to join his class at the sports hall.

He had a 2 hour lesson with a bunch of overexcited 15 year olds, and just taking a look at all of them shouting and playfully fighting each other discouraged Paul a little. But he didn't let his pupils see that, and with an enough commanding voice, he managed to get them all to cool down and listen to him. They had the bus waiting for them outside, that would take them to the indoor swimming pool 10 minutes away from the school. Two girls came to him discreetly before getting on the bus to tell him they couldn't come because they were "indisposed". Paul had the feeling they were lying but he wasn't going to check if it was true or not and allowed them to stay back, to the condition that they would be studying seriously at the shcool library. They went back inside happily, and Paul joined the rest of the class on the bus, trying hard to convince himself it was exactly like taking public transports.

 

***

 

Daryl had always felt uncomfortable in a police station. They had nothing on him, but Daryl always had the sinking feeling they would find some excuse to get him arrested if he stayed too long in there. He tried and relaxed, the police didn't know he had informations on the murder attempt's case. He wasn't here to share his informations with them, though. He came to see a very specific person. Someone he knew he could trust, that he had known since pratically forever as he had come to the Dixon's residence many times to keep Daryl's father from constantly beating the shit out of his family for years, until Dixon Senior brutally passed away, one night. Shot in the chest by a guy he had a fight with. That was the official version. The truth being, Officer Dylan Cook had had enough of his bullshit and killed him after he had beaten his wife to the point she had ended up at the hospital. Only the remaining Dixons knew the truth.  
Nobody had cried during the funeral. Cook had been there, and had stood by Daryl's side until they had put his father's dead body under the ground, as if watching over him until it was really all over.

The years had been kind on the officer. His curly back hair were now as white as snow, but he looked pretty fit for his age. He had a strong aura about him that had always made Daryl felt safe. When he caught sight of the younger man, Cook smiled and hugged Daryl fiercely. They hadn't crossed paths again in almost 20 years but it felt to Daryl like they'd last seen each other yesterday.

"You didn't get yourself into some trouble, I hope ?" he teased Daryl.  
"Nah," Daryl smiled. "I ain't like that."  
"No, you're not." Cook agreed. "You keep staying that way." he added, nonetheless.

 

Daryl nodded. He hadn't realised how much he had missed the man.

"What brings you here, then ?" Cook inquired.  
"I need your help with something. I'm looking for somebody and I think you can help me find him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter ! The Desus reunion is close now. Thank you to those who left kudos and comments on the previous chapters. I will never say it enough but know it is highly appreciated.
> 
> Side note : Decan street doesn't exist. The story takes place in an imaginary city.
> 
> Thank you for reading !


	5. The shooter

Everything is going to be okay.

She doubted the truth in the words she heard echoing in her head with her own voice, but held onto them nonetheless. She couldn't back down now, she had gone too far, it was too late. She took a deep breath through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. In the dead of night, the sound her breathing made was loud to her ears, too loud. She forced herself to relax, she had to be discreet.

When she saw the man she was supposed to gun down, she almost shrieked. The poor guy looked desoriented, lost, confused. Much like she was herself. She held the gun in her hand so tight her fingers started to hurt. She could never kill this man, she realised in terror. Even in the face of death, she couldn't murder somebody to save her own life. Tears started rolling down her pale cheeks when she became truly conscious of the fact that she was going to die because of whatever that man had done to got himself into this situation. She had to become a murderer for the rest of her life if she hoped to live, because of him.

No matter how hard she tried to hate him, she had already made her decision and when Colleen Stafford made a decision she never went back on that later. She took out the silencer Julian Brans had attached to the gun he lent her, as to not alert the whole street, and pointed the pistol to the man's chest instead of the head like she had been instructed to. She had to aim for the sides, she couldn't touch any vital organ in case the noise didn't wake anyone up. Her hand trembled and when the shot fired she couldn't honestly tell what part of the man's body she had touched. The man fell backwards, silent at first, or maybe the shot had made her deaf, Colleen didn't know. After a few seconds the man yelled and she was relieved she hadn't accidently aimed for the head. She ran as fast as she could to the sewer door opened for her and in the haste of things, threw herself all the way to the bottom instead of taking the ladder like she was supposed to.  
From the sewer grounds, she could still hear the man's screams. The adrenaline, mixed with the fear and the pain she was now feeling from her bottom that she had hurt in her fall, had Colleen now half laughing, half crying frantically. She had shot the man, and she desperatly hoped that it would be sufficient for her to be left alone. She heard the police siren and tried to be as quiet as possible. She looked up and saw with relief that the sewer's door had closed behind her. Then, her gaze set on the gun laying next to her. She had dropped it without realising it. She knew she had to hide it, her handprints were all over it, but when she walked away, the gun was still exactly where it had fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up very shortly (probably tonight as this one is so short, still working on it). I hope you enjoyed this little plot twist !


	6. Strange Disappearances

It had taken only 5 minutes for Cook to find the man Daryl was looking for in the police database. Although the media wouldn't shut up about the murder attempt down Decan street, mentions of the victim himself were rare. Daryl read in the newspapers that the police hadn't even interrogated him yet. Apparently, he was in no condition to testify against his attacker, but nothing else had been said about Evan Shaw.

 

"Violented speed limits on numerous occasions," Cook was reading out loud. "drinking and driving offenses... seems like you two have a lot in common." he glanced at Daryl and Daryl snorted. "Though he didn't have his driver's licence taken away." That didn't make Daryl laugh. "Anyway, the guy was arrested multiple times, yes, but he never seriously injured anyone. I don't see why somebody would want to kill him. I know Brans and his men that are working on the case have searched a reason to why Shaw could have been assaulted and came to the conclusion the shooter was probably somebody he didn't know."

 

That left Daryl thoughtful. He stayed silent, thinking hard and trying to understand how much Merle was implicated in this whole murder attempt's business.

 

"They say where he's been hospitalised ?" he asked after a moment.  
"No." Cook answered, studying Daryl's face closely. "Tell me, why are you so interested in this case, anyway ? You got no business down Decan street, do you ?"  
"I know one of the witnesses."  
"Oh, so this is really about a girl, then." he chuckled. "You think you can hunt down the guy that tried to kill Shaw on your own, all that to be a hero in her eyes ? Girls don't like that shit anymore, it'll take you more than that to impress her."

 

It was funny to Daryl that Cook assumed he was into girls when Cook himself was the first person that had made Daryl question his sexuality in the first place. Daryl had spent most of his teenage years trying to convince himself he wasn't attracted to guys, he had even tried to date girls. Growing up and becoming an adult, Daryl had to accept the fact that all relationships he would pursue with women would fail. He just wasn't into them and never will be. He dismissed the old man's insinuations and focused on Shaw again.

 

"I heard one of them saw Shaw's attacker. You know anything about that ?"

 

Cook stared, visibly disturbed by Daryl's words. It took him a few seconds before he answered.

 

"Colleen Stafford. They didn't mention that on the news." Cook said, furrowing his brow. "If you know anything that can help Brans and his men apprehend the guy, I strongly suggest you talk, son. Now."  
"I ain't got nothing to do with this." Daryl exclamed defensively.  
"I know you don't. But it wouldn't surprise me if your brother did. Is that why you're looking for Evan Shaw and asking about the girl, Stafford ? To make sure they don't talk ? To protect Merle ?"  
"You really think I could really murder somebody to protect Merle ?" Daryl bounced back, angry now. "I ain't the one that shot dead somebody here."  
"You didn't seem to mind back then." Cook retorted.

 

Daryl had nothing to say to that so he kept quiet, not hating the man any less for insinuating he was on a murder mission for Merle. After both had calmed down a little, Daryl spoke again.

 

"Rovia."  
"Rovia ?"  
"I knew him. Years ago. Just..." Daryl lowered his gaze. "make sure nothing happens to him and Williams."  
"And not Stafford ?" Cook asked. "I'm assuming you know the girl's been missing after she'd testified against the shooter, as well, then." he concluded.

 

Given Merle's inclinations to think Stafford was probably dead, Daryl kind of knew she must had been missing. But hearing it from an officer made it real, made the whole thing too real. He was worried about Rovia and devastated at the idea that Merle was implicated in all this. Cook seemed to notice his distress.

 

"Agents take turns in watching Rovia and Williams' residence. Some of them even make sure they go to work safely. So, you don't have to worry about your friend. And I'd advise you to stay away from Evan Shaw. For your own safety."

 

Daryl nodded, not trusting himself to be able to lie in the man's face. He couldn't stay away, he didn't even know which cops were paid agents to Merle's band and of the shooter's. For all he knew, Cook was even in on this.  
When Daryl made to leave, they shared a brief and awkward hug, the tension still present despite having both cooled down.

 

"You know I almost didn't recognise you with your long hair ?" Cook's voice was softer, he even smiled. "You looked so much like your dad when you were a kid. Now when I look at you, it's like looking at an old photograph of your mum. Same hair, same sadness in the eyes..."

 

Daryl suddenly felt like somebody was crushing his heart in his chest with their fist.

 

***

 

Paul took the bus of 10:49 after his class. His next lesson was in the late afternoon, and he didn't want to spend all that time at the school, he wanted to gome home and maybe take a nap after having eaten a bit. The minutes seemed an enternity, and Paul was starting to doze off.

That was one of the meds' side effects, they could cause drowsiness. Once, he had even fallen asleep while he was in the school's bathroom, being waken up only by the bell 15 minutes after. 

The bus stopped in front of the police station, and a family got out, followed by an old woman who almost fell while trying to get off. Paul hurried to help her, for which she thanked him warmly. The doors closed behind her, and it was at this moment that Paul sighted a man walking out of the station. At first, he didn't think much of it, but looking closely, his face seemed familiar. The man glanced briefly in his direction, without really seeing him, but that allowed Paul to see him more clearly. The bus had already started when he remembered. He couldn't believe his eyes, he had changed a lot, had darker, longer hair but Paul was certain this man was the boy he had met at the foster home he had lived at for 4 years after his parents died, a boy named Daryl Dixon. He didn't have much memories of his time at the Princes', the couple that had taken him in, but he did remember Daryl Dixon pretty well. The boy had made a big impression on all the kids, he remembered, being the oldest of them all, and the tallest. He had introduced himself as 'Dixon' and had bluntly refused to give them his first name, staying silent when the kids had asked. Paul, imitating him, had introduced himself as 'Rovia'.   
After a moment, Paul lost sight of him and was left completely dumbfounded.

 

***

 

Merle was not picking up, and it started to really get on Daryl's nerves. He wanted to ask him if he had learnt anything new about what had happened to Colleen. In truth, Daryl needed his brother to reassure him and tell him the girl was still alive somewhere, that he had taken care of everything and that it was going to be okay, that he wasn't going to go to prison for murder or whatever he had got himself to. Frustrated and angry, as well as disturbed by Cook's remark about his mother, Daryl threw his phone violently on the road with such force it broke a driving car's windshield. He heard honking and shouting but he didn't care. He felt as alone as when his mother had died and Merle had left him, probably drowning his own pain in drugs, alcohol and sex while Daryl had to deal with all the papers and the house's inheritance as well as his mum's funerals. Cook had helped in any way he could, but it wasn't him Daryl needed back then. Just like it wasn't Cook he needed right now. He needed his brother and he wasn't there.

 

Daryl had visited three of the four medical centre in town, as well as the hospital, and hadn't found any trace of Evan Shaw. It was getting dark, and Daryl was too tired to go to the last one. He sat down at a near bus stop and started thinking. He found it odd that the man had just disappeared, and that nobody seemed to care. The media didn't speak of Colleen's disappearance, either, which Daryl found even more strange.

He saw the bus getting closer, and although he longed to just go to sleep and try and forget about this whole thing, he decided not to take it. Instead, he took a shortcut on foot that would lead him straight to Decan street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked this chapter  
> Thank you for reading !


	7. The Sponsor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brans is stuck into a corner, while Cook finds out the truth about the shooting incident.

Julian Brans was looking down at Evan Shaw's sleeping form through a glass. He was standing a few meters up. The room had been arranged like a small operating theatre that allowed Brans to see everything from up there.  
His phone buzzed in his pocket and when he looked at the screen, his face hardened. After giving one last glance to Evan Shaw, Brans left the room.

In the dead of night, it was hard to see his face clearly but Brans recognised his long-time colleague Cook instantly. The two men had always disliked each other, though not actively. It was only in the look, in the way they addressed each other that made it clear these two were not friends and never will be. Brans expected him to find this place sooner or later, the old man was smart, he had to concede. They shook hands in silence, studying the other's face while they did it. Cook was the first to break contact, to Brans' relief. Officer Dylan Cook was a little more than 10 years older than him, nevertheless his strong handful still threatened to twist the Chief Officer's fingers, the pressure being barely bearable.

 

"You wanted to see me," Brans began, "so here I am."  
"We closed that place months ago if I remember well." Cook said in that always formal tone he hated so much.  
"So ?"  
"I see you opened it again."

 

Brans didn't speak for a while, trying to come up with the best excuse he could give without it being too obviously one. Cook was hard to fool.

 

"Who told you I was here ?" he asked, instead. That would give him more time to think.  
"Not everyone in the station's been bought by your... friends yet, thankfully. Some still report strange activities that take place in this damn city." he had said this calmly, though his resentment was clear enough to Brans.  
"What friends are you talking about ?"  
Cook ignored the queston. "I've been told your boys rearranged this storage. And with the city's money, no less. So, the mayor is on this, too, or did you just steal it ?"

 

They had never talked as much as they were now, and it unsettled Brans a little. He knew Cook had known about his dirty business for years but they had never talked about it so openly before. For the first time in a what had seemed a long time, Brans felt fear. He wasn't used to it and he hated this feeling.

 

"These are very serious accusations, Dylan."  
"I've got good reasons to think all of these, Julian."

 

Brans phone buzzed again. Both men stare for a moment before Brans answered the call.

 

"Officer Brans speaking." he tried to say as calmly as possible.  
"No, no, no. I speak and you listen you son of a bitch." It was Merle Dixon's voice Brans was unhappy to hear.  
"Mister Dixon, I swear I'm doing everything I can-"  
"You shut your fucking mouth, you hear me ? Shut. Up."  
"OK."

 

Brans noticed Cook's strong confidence had wore out, he looked upset for some reason. Then, it hit him. It was known within the station that Cook and the Dixon brothers had been close once. Some even said that he had been behind the boys' father's death, though it was never proven true.

 

"I got the girl with me." Merle announced him.  
"Stafford ?" Brans couldn't help but asked, frantic.  
"She told me some interesting things about you, Julian."  
"Listen-"  
"No, I'm done listening to you. I paid you for one job; get someone, anyone, to kill that bastard Evan Shaw and now I learn you're keeping him alive somewhere ? Didn't you tell me the job was done and that the news reported only fake news about the guy having survived ? Didn't you, TELL ME," he shouted, "that you'd taken care of the girl already ? That she ain't fucking breathing no more ?"

 

Brans didn't know if it was an actual question or not so he kept quiet. Cook was staring at him intently.

 

"She's right fucking here, Julian ! I see her in front of me right now, she ain't dead !"  
"You paid me to have Shaw killed. You didn't tell me I was supposed to get rid of her, too. That wasn't part of the deal."  
"But you didn't even have Shaw killed, you fucking cheater !"  
"I tried to ! But Colleen, she came to me the next morning, she said she couldn't do it. She said the guy was probably gonna make it, but she told me too late, they had already taken him to the hospital. I had to pay guys to get him out of there. But thing is, Dixon, I can't do it. I can't kill him and I don't have enough money to have somebody doing it for me at the moment. But he's somewhere no one can find him."

 

He looked up at Cook, then.

 

"No one. Once I get enough money, I'll have the son of a bitch killed. In the meantime, he's not going anywhere."

 

The truth was Brans had not try and find somebody to do the dirty job for him. It was easy to plan the murder of a man you didn't know, a man you hadn't seen the face of. But when his men had brought Evan Shaw to him the day after the shooting, allowing to actually see who he had been employed to murder had suddenly felt too real for Brans. He had done numerous nasty things in his career for people like Merle, and he never really felt guilty about it, the extra money was going to pay for his kids' education when they go to University, he used it to buy his wife gifts, his wife who had spent most of their marriage worrying about him because of his job, the money also came in handy when he had used it to build the house he was currently living in with his family. But killing a man in cold blood, after having seen the guy face to face, and for something as trivial as Merle not wanting to pay the guy what he owed him, was making Brans question everything. Then, not only did he have to murder one man, but now he had to kill Colleen Stafford, too. An innocent in all of this that he had chosen, like he could had had chosen anyone else, a woman who had done nothing to deserve getting such a fate. It wasn't what Brans had promised her, it wasn't what Merle had first asked of him.  
Cook seemed to understand what he was doing and moved away to call the station and warn them about the situation. Colleen Stafford was going to get killed if they didn't find Merle quickly.

 

"But I can take you to him." he proposed, hoping Merle could communicate his whereabouts to him so he can communicate them to Cook.  
"I'm at my brother's. But we ain't doing this here, I don't want him to get into trouble."  
"Where do we meet, then ?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Daryl or Jesus in this chapter because the next one is all about them  
> This fic far from over, though  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will enjoy the other twists I have in store for you ! (Hoping you didn't guess this one xD)  
> Thank you for reading X


	8. Past and Present Intertwine

Paul was sitting at the back of the car, Mr Rovia was driving while Mrs rovia was sleeping, her face so near the window her breath was fogging a small part of it. Paul wanted to draw some funny form on it with his finger but the belt was preventing him from reaching his mother's window. His fingers brushed the belt, he really wanted to take it off to draw on the window. His father yawned loudly, which startled him so much it stopped him from taking the belt off. He laid back and sighed. It was going to be a long road.

 

A few moments later, Paul woke up. He hadn't realised he had fallen asleep. It had got really dark and it left him very confused for a minute. It was way too dark for his father to see the road ahead, Paul couldn't even see his own hand.

 

"Dad ?" he called. No anwer. "Mum ?" No answer.

 

He tried hard to fight the tears threatening to fall down from his eyes. He brought his legs to his chest and hid his face between them, his arms holding his legs tight, as if to keep them from falling back down. Paul's parents were not there, he knew. They couldn't be, they were dead and it was all just a dream. The little boy took comfort in the fact that this time, at least, the dream had stopped before he could relive the crash all over again. The tears rolled down his cheeks despite his best to try to hold them back. Then came the sobs, which he knew would wake the other children. After a couple of seconds, he heard movement in beds, and soon after he heard sighs and complains. The group home didn't have a lot of bedrooms. Paul had to share this one with six others. He hated being stuck in this place, although the social worker that had brought him here said he'd soon being sent to a foster family in a big and beautiful house that Paul would love. Paul wasn't sure he would love the house, or the people there, but it couldn't be worse than the group home, or being alone.

 

 

When Daryl opened his eyes, for a moment, a very short moment, he had forgotten that today was the day the social workers were going to take him away from his home and send him somewhere the 16-year-old boy knew next to nothing about. He got up from bed and went to the kitchen to make pancakes that he planned on eating with some milk he had bought yesterday at his mother's request. Mrs Dixon was in the kitchen, and Daryl noted that she was already dressed, ready to welcome the man or woman that would take her son away. She had made pancakes. That was odd. Mrs Dixon usually made pancakes only on Sundays or Christmas day. She spotted Daryl and mentioned for him to sit down and eat. When she turned to her son again, she seemed surprised to see he hadn't moved at all, and was still standing, staring at her hotly. Daryl couldn't explain why he felt so much rage towards his mother in this moment but he did. He hated her. He wanted to slap her like his father always did when he was upset. He wanted to see her cry. He wanted her to be affected by him leaving the house. But Daryl wasn't his father. He had dark thoughts, but he kept them to himself and would do what he was told most of the time. So, he sat down and ate his pancakes prepared with, he thought resentfully, anything but love.

The second time Daryl opened his eyes that day, he was in a car. He hastily wiped off the tears that had fallen from his eyes during his nap and looked ahead. The driver on his left glanced at him and looked back on the road with a faint smile on her face.

 

"I thought you'd sleep all the way to the Princes." she said. "You didn't sleep very well, did you ? Most children don't the night before meeting their foster parents."

 

Daryl's only wish in that moment was for her to shut her mouth. What did she know about what children are feeling in this situation, anyway ? And Daryl wasn't a child. He was almost a grown man and he didn't understand why they had chosen to place him in another family now and not when he was still a child and needed help. It's been over a year now that his father didn't come home every night anymore. He spent most of the week away, doing God knows what. And although he still abused his wife and son from time to time, Daryl was big enough to fight back now. Merle, who would often bring Daryl into his bullshit had left home years ago and was now leaving Daryl out of whatever he was doing. Daryl didn't need to be taken away. Not anymore. They had come and fetch him too late.

 

 

***

 

 

 

Paul had been there for a couple weeks when Mrs Prince announced him and the other children that they would welcome another boy next saturday. Mr Prince welcomed the news with great enthusiasm and tried to communicate his joy to the other kids, to get them all excited; they were going to have another friend to play with.

 

"Well, I've talked to Marilyn and...," began mrs Prince, addressing her husband. "he's slightly older than the others..."

 

Mr Prince gave his wife a quizzical look, but she didn't say more. After a moment, the couple left the room to talk away from the children's ears. Paul left his half eaten toast and hurried outside. He followed the couple discreetly to the great living-room that was at least twice as big as the one back at the group home. They were whispering to each other so Paul tried to get as close as possible without being seen. Soon, he noticed Martin had followed him, and was listening intently, too. Martin was a year older than Paul, but he looked much older. Paul had always suspected the boy to have lied to him and the other kids about his age.

 

"I don't get it, what do you mean slightly older ?" Mr Prince was asking. He glanced around to make sure no one was listening and almost caught the spying boys.  
"Marilyn says the other couples said no, and he's grown in such a toxic environment, honey, I couldn't just say no..."  
"How old is he ? Not older than 15, I hope. We agreed on that from the start..." he looked more worried than Paul had ever seen him. "Please, Ingrid, don't tell me he's 15..." he almost pleaded her, as if it could change anything.  
"He's 16." she told him, her voice barely audible to the boys.

 

Mr Prince didn't answer, he only sighed heavily and turned his back on Mrs Prince. He didn't seem angry or upset, he looked terrified of the idea of welcoming a boy of this age. Mrs Prince looked more guilty than scared.

 

"OK." Mr Prince said after a moment. "OK."

 

Martin went back to the kitchen soon after. Paul stayed a bit longer, looking at the Princes. They were older than his parents were before the accident, but they looked just as in love with each other as his parents. He watched them as Mr Prince was taking his wife in his arms, as if to reassure her that he wasn't angry. Mrs Prince reciprocated the hug, and Paul decided to leave them alone.

He didn't go back to the kitchen, he wasn't hungry anymore. Instead, he took refuge into his bedroom. He had been so happy to see every children had a room of their own, that he wasn't going to have to share a room with any of them. Paul liked them, liked spending time with them, but he feared sharing a room with them would make the kids hate him the same say it had with the ones at the group home. They would always complain to the adults about his crying at night, and how annoying he was, how seeing his parents die in a car accident was not worse than them witnessing their own parents die, or go to prison, and how he was exaggerating, that it wasn't that bad here.  
Paul lied down on his bed and started imagining what the new boy would look like. Mrs Prince said he grew up in a very toxic environment. Paul wondered how that must be like. His own parents were good to him, and he didn't know the rest of his family. Mr and Mrs Rovia were born in England, and had come to America a year after Paul was born. They'd never talked about Paul's grandparents, or if he had uncles and aunts.

He rolled down on his side and closed his eyes, trying to make the memory of his dead parents disappear. In the afternoon, he would have to see the therapist and he didn't want him to see how sad and empty he felt inside.

 

Saturday came quickly. Paul found he was as excited as the other children to welcome someone new in the house. Mr Prince looked apprehensive when the car at the end of the road ahead of them appeared. Paul saw Mrs Prince smiled brightly at him and took his hand into hers. That brought a smile on her husband's face, and brought one to Paul's as well.  
The car parked and here he was. He was tall, and if Paul didn't know his age he would think he was at least 18. He had his hair cut shorter than Paul who had pretty short hair himself, and they were a colour a little lighter than his own brown ones. Martin was the first to introduce himself, then followed all the others, so excited to see a new face that seemed to make the new boy uncomfortable.

 

"What's your name ?" 5-year old Ian asked him.  
"Dixon." he answered coldly.

 

Paul came forward to introduce himself, too, realising he was the only one that hadn't. He held up a slightly shaking hand to Dixon, that he took after examining it for a few seconds. This close, Paul noticed Dixon's eyes were blue, just like his own, only darker, deeper, and cold.

 

"Rovia." he told his name, imitating him. "I'm Rovia."

 

Dixon nodded and let go of his hand. When Paul turned to the Princes, they were carefully approaching the teenage boy, warm smiles upon their faces that betrayed nothing of their unease.

 

 

 

***

 

 

Daryl had been there for almost a week when the Princes came to him one day to inform him he would be home-schooled. Mr Prince was going to teach him mathematics and sciences, while three of his old colleagues at the university where he used to work before agreed on coming twice a week to teach him English litterature, grammar and History. While Daryl was relieved not to have to go to a new school, it also meant he would be stuck most of the week at home, and he hated it inside. It was too big, looked too much like a residential school. Though he had his own bedroom which was nice.

He kept mostly to himself when the other kids came back from school, and they respected his need for privacy and isolement for which Daryl was silently grateful. While they were all in their respective bedrooms doing their homework due for tomorrow, Daryl proceeded to visit the library. He had been in the room only once, it was on his first day when Mrs Prince took him on a tour around the house. He liked how fresh it was in here, though never cold. He picked a book at random and sat down on a couch nearby to read it. He gave up at page 40, the book definitely not to his liking. When he put the book down onto his lap, he jumped at the boy staring at him from across the room. He hadn't heard him come in. It was Rovia.

 

"Sorry." he apologised. "You like it ?" he then asked, catching sight of the book resting on Daryl's thighs.  
"It's crap." he told him truthfully before throwing the book away at the end of the couch.

 

Rovia chuckled, almost shyly. He probably wasn't used to hear people swear a lot, which was an habit Daryl had trouble keeping at bay sometimes. He snorted at the boy's amusement and got up.

 

"What's this ?" Daryl pointed the book in Rovia's hands.  
"Oh, it's nothing." the boy answered him. "It's crap, too."

 

They both chuckled this time and Daryl took the book from his hands. He read the title and the author's name. Daryl knew this book, and knew the content; it was pretty dark, a lot bloody, not really what one would consider suitable for kids. When he looked up, he found the little boy observing him with wide eyes. He handed the book back to him.

 

"How old are you ?" Daryl asked, his brow furrowed.  
"10." Rovia answered.  
"Wanna know why you didn't like this book ?" he asked, but went on before the boy could answer. "Ain't for kids."  
"I'm more mature than all the kids in this house." the boy bounced back, to Daryl's surprise.  
"They let you read that ?" he wanted to know, curious. "Mr and Mrs Creep, I mean." he precised.  
"They don't even know I borrowed it." Rovia said proudly, making Daryl laugh.

 

Everyday after school, Rovia would wait for him to come at the library. It seemed only the two of them came in here, as they were always alone. Daryl had read more books that he could count and so advised what he thought were good to Rovia, to the little boy's delight. Daryl almost immediately caught on the boy's admiration for him. He didn't look at Daryl like the other kids did, with desdain and fear. Rovia didn't fear him, and looked like he genuinely enjoyed spending time with Daryl. Daryl didn't mind his company, either. It helped him take his mind off things, of the situation he was in, of his fears of never being able to return to his home. This little boy had brought so much light in Daryl's darkest moments that he felt like he owed Rovia a lot. If it weren't for him, Daryl would had probably tried and run from this place, or contemplated going back to hurting himself, but none of these things happened. He had a friend here, as small as he was, a true friend, the truest he had ever known.

Daryl caught the boy hiding behind the vegetation in the garden when he went out to get some fresh air after his math lesson with Mr Prince. It looked like he was crying. Daryl felt bad, he knew about Rovia's parents, heard about how they had died in a car crash earlier this year. Although Daryl still hated his mother at the moment, he couldn't even bear to imagine his life without her. He stood there for a moment, not knowing whether he should comfort him or leave him alone. He decided to do the latter. The boy clearly needed some space.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Paul went out of his therapy session the heart heavy and his eyes burning hot with tears. He held them back so Mr Prince didn't see the state he was in. He didn't have the heart to smile, though, so Mr Prince picked up on him being upset the moment he saw Paul. They said goodbye to the therapist and thank him, then went back to the car.  
The silence in the car appeased Paul's mind a little, he was so grateful for Mr Prince not engaging in any way in this moment, so grateful he could hug him. In the few months he'd been staying at the Princes', Paul realised there and now how much he had grown to care for the old couple. He grew suddenly terrified at the idea of them ever giving up on him when he was older. He wanted them to adopt him. But despite their kindness, Paul knew they would never accept. It hurt him more than he cared to admit.  
Mr Prince parked the car in the alley and bent down on a eye level with Paul to speak to him face to face.

 

"Paul, I know this isn't easy for you, having to talk about what happened to you and having to," he paused, visibly touched by Paul's distress. "live with the fact that both of your parents..." he stopped when Paul couldn't hold his tears any longer and sighed, taking the boy into his arms. "I'm so sorry, Paul. Just so you know, Ingrid and I are here for you, all right ?"

 

Paul nodded against his chest, desperately wanting to believe these words.

 

"Daryl must be waiting for me." he said, letting go of Paul. "Will you be okay ?"  
"Yeah." he lied.

 

Mr Prince gave him a sad smile that probably was meant to cheer him up but didn't. He forced himself to smile back, not wanting the old man to worry too much about him.  
Paul heard the distant shouts of children playing and ran across the garden before they see him and hid into a bramble bush, the thorns cutting his arms and face. It hurt but he stayed hidden there until they went away. Then, he got out and went to sit against a tree, crying his eyes out, his chest hurting even more than the cuts. He started to do the breathing exercices the therapist had taught him. It helped him relax after a while. He thought of Daryl and wondered if his lesson was over. He glanced around anxiously, and when he saw nobody he quickly joined the house and went to the bathroom. He proceeded to clean his wounds, the Princes didn't need to see he had hurt himself. The cuts on his face were easy to hide behind some of the strands of his hair, but he will have to wear long sleeves for a while if he didn't want the Princes to think he had suicidal thoughts. He put on a sweatshirt and headed to the library where he would wait for Daryl to join him.

 

He eventually joined Paul an hour later, when the boy was deep in reading one of the books Daryl had advised him to read.  
When Paul saw his face, he put down the book on the chair next to him and ran up to him. He hesitated only a couple of seconds before hugging the taller boy's waist as tight as he could. Daryl stayed still for a long time, but eventually held the boy in a warm embrace that brought Paul to tears once again. He began sobbing, letting himself go in the arms of the person he had come to consider his best friend over time.

 

"It's okay." Daryl said softly. "You'll be okay, Rovia."  
"I don't want you to go. Ever." Paul whispered. "Please."  
"OK." Daryl said.  
"Promise me."  
"I promise."

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

26 years later.

 

Paul was staring at the man that had once been one of the most important person in his life for the second time today and couldn't believe he wasn't in one of his wildest dreams. Daryl Dixon was staring back at him in the hallways at his front door, visibly as disturbed as Paul was to be standing in front of him after all these years. Sasha was next to him, not really understanding what was going on, but Paul couldn't give her his full attention at the moment.

They entered Paul's flat, Sasha making herself like home and taking a seat, while Daryl Dixon glanced around nervously. Paul felt his chest tighten and didn't trust himself to talk.  
Sasha proceeded to explain everything from the beginning.

 

She told him she and Daryl had met once before at her work, but that beyond that one time they didn't know each other at all. Daryl had seen their names on the papers and went looking for them, for Paul more specifically. Sasha had caught Daryl in the hall and that's why they had come to Paul's together. He told Sasha all about how he had learnt about Colleen, about her disappearance, and how he feared for her and Paul's safety. Daryl stayed quiet, letting Sasha do all the talking. He seemed embarrassed. Paul didn't know how he felt yet.

 

"So, Merle, Daryl's brother, he knows probably more than he lets on." she finished. "But that's not why Daryl's here."  
"Why are you here ?" Paul asked Daryl coolly despite himself, anger slowly rising in him.  
"He..." began Sasha.  
"I'm not asking you, Sasha." he spat at her. "Why are you here ?"

 

Daryl looked down in shame, but Paul knew how he felt had nothing to do with the question. Sasha stepped in again, insistant, when Daryl stayed silent.

 

"He's here to warn us against those cops guarding the street down there." she pointed at the window while she said this.  
"How surprising," mumbled Paul. "can't trust anybody. I should know better by now. Right, Daryl ?"

 

He had never called Daryl by his first name and it seemed to have both taken them aback.

 

"Daryl told me you'd probably react badly to his coming," Sasha began. "but whatever happened between you two, I suggest you let it go and start paying attention to what I'm saying, Paul. They got to Colleen." at these words, Sasha's voice broke. "She may be dead, for Christ' sake."

 

Paul's anger started to wear out at Sasha's distress. He could see she was sad, too. Maybe the two women had been closer than Paul had first imagined. He went to comfort her but she waved at him to stay back and he did.

 

"You can't stay here." Daryl told them after a while.  
"I could stay at my brother's for a while, I guess." Sasha suggested.  
"Where does he live ?" Daryl inquired.  
"Out of town."  
"Good."

 

Then, Daryl looked expectantly at Paul.

 

"I got nowhere else to go." Paul said under his breath. "Anyway, it's been weeks by now. Why would they want to get to us, too, now ? Besides, only Colleen saw the shooter."  
"Look, you do what you want." Daryl said, suddenly annoyed. "I've just come here to warn you the cops out there might not be here to protect you. But if it don't bother you to have the shooter's people follow you everywhere you go, you stay here. Not my problem."

 

Daryl moved to the door, followed closely by Sasha.

 

"I told you," Paul finally said, desperately. "I got nowhere to go. No friends, no family. No one who would accept a potential maniac's target into their home. What do you expect me to do ? Going homeless ?"

 

Daryl shut back the door he had begun to open and turned to Paul again.

 

"I got a place, a workshop." Daryl said, somewhat awkwardly. "You can stay there if you want."

 

A mix of emotions seized Paul at these words. He was angry with the man still, but his kind offer had touched him more than he wanted to admit. His throat too tight to speak, he nodded, accepting the offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ! Hope you liked this chapter.


	9. Daryl's workshop

He watched as Rovia wandered about the room, getting used to his surroundings as it was going to be his home for quite a while. The workshop was small but so was Rovia's appartment back at Decan Street, so Daryl knew it wouldn't be a problem for the other man. He looked younger than his 36 years, and despite his small stature he looked pretty impressive. Daryl had a hard time realising the little boy he knew had transformed into this handsome man before him. He, too, wore his hair much longer now, and even grew a beard that Daryl thought suited him. He suspected Rovia to had it grown only to appear older, the thought amusing him. His eyes were what truly unsettled him, though. They were the same colour, the same shape, but something about them weren't quite right. Little Rovia's eyes had seemed cold to him when they were kids, sad, even when he smiled, and almost glassy, but now they looked warm, kind, though still wary when they set on Daryl again.

 

"You own this place ?" he asked.  
"Bought it to a friend of mine." Daryl explained him, noting the tone. "I didn't steal it."  
"I didn't mean..." Rovia sighed. "I know you didn't steal it."

 

Daryl turned to the counter and got out a spare key for the workshop from one of its drawers that he handed over to Rovia. The younger man took it, nodding in thanks. They studied each other's faces for an uncomfortable long time after that. They had both changed a lot.

 

"It's nice here." Rovia said after a moment, more kindly.  
"Imma bring you some stuff from my place. Shampoo, food..."

 

Rovia had taken some spare clothes, his phone, grooming things, and even some peanuts and ravioli cans. Daryl just couldn't bear all this tension in the room and truly only needed some fresh air.

 

"How long do you think I'm gonna have to stay here ?" Rovia asked before he could go.  
"Ah," Daryl remembered. "you work at a school. Right. Better call in sick. Like, hospital sick."  
"I've just got this job, I can't lose it because of your and Sasha's paranoia." he suddenly snapped, angry again.

 

Daryl knew the reason why Rovia was so angry. But he wasn't going to bring that up now. He kept quiet, swallowing back his proud as best as he could. Rovia calmed down, eventually. He sat on the desk chair and looked up at Daryl.

 

"Why are you helping me ?" he asked softly. "We barely even know each other."  
"Barely ?" Daryl took offense despite himself. They had been friends. At least, to Daryl's eyes.  
"Well, I can't say I knew you all that well, can I ?" he threw at Daryl.

 

Another allusion to what had happened when they were kids. But Daryl was resolute not to discuss this. He had his reasons for breaking his promise. Reasons that were his only and he didn't wish to talk about it. Besides, it felt to Daryl that Rovia was making a big fuss about it just to annoy him, which he didn't like.

 

"If you didn't need my help, why did you follow me here ?" Daryl asked.  
"I didn't say I didn't need you." Daryl noticed the panic that passed on his face before he corrected himself hastily. "Your help, I mean."

 

The lapsus made Daryl's heart beat faster in his chest. It also made him feel bad. Little Rovia had, indeed, needed him once, and he had abandoned him.

 

"I'm sorry." Daryl apologised, eventually. He felt like it needed to be said at some point.  
"Yeah," Rovia looked away. "I bet you are. Doesn't change anything."

 

Daryl soon abandoned the idea of leaving him, not trusting the man to just stay here and wait for him. He didn't know what he would do if he came back to find the workshop empty. He proceeded to get one comfortable blanket he kept for the nights he spent at work and offered it to Rovia. Then, they both stayed quiet for a while, lost in thoughts, and hearts heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. This fic is not dead, I'm just having a REAL hard time finishing it. I felt like posting a little something even if it's very… little. It's a way for me to get back on it properly. I really don't want to give up on it now that I've covered most of the plot. Anyway, thank you for reading !


	10. Broken promises

They saw it on television on the third day Rovia had been living in the workshop. Officer Brans was being arrested for corruption and attempt murder on the person of Evan Shaw, who to Daryl's surprise was still alive. No mention of Merle or Colleen, and it seemed like details were being left out on purpose. They only mentioned Brans having confessed to his crimes before having been apprehended and even cooperating with the police force to help and catch others that were in on this murder attempt case. As usual, the media was hiding the whole truth and only told people the bare minimum. At least, they had admitted the old Officer's corruption which was something.

Rovia was getting up to drink from one of the water bottles Daryl had bought the day before when the latter noticed the younger man's eyes sighting the vodka bottles in the bin. Daryl briefly shut his eyes, cursing himself from not taking the trash out. He waited for Rovia to say another one of his sarcastic comments he inflicted on Daryl for the last three days, his anger still very much present to Daryl's dismay. Only this time, Daryl was in no mood to take any shit from anyone and was ready to bounce back when Rovia had set his gaze on him.

 

"I met Brans once." he declared, which took Daryl aback. "He seemed like a nice man." Rovia added while glancing back at the tv, watching Brans being arrested before looking back at Daryl again.

"They said he cooperated." Daryl spoke hesitantly. "Guess he wasn't that bad…"

"I guess." Rovia said, sighing.

 

Daryl watched as Rovia glanced back at the empty vodka bottles in the bin and prepared himself for nasty comments, putting up his guard once more just in case. But his old friend did no such thing. Instead, he went through the backdoor that led outside, probably to have a shower, leaving Daryl alone with his own thoughts.

Merle was all the biker could think of at the moment. He borrowed Rovia's phone on the desk next to him and dialled his brother's number. He still hadn't had his own phone fixed that he had thrown against a car the other day. Daryl wasn't surprised when Merle didn't pick up, he rarely did, let alone now that he probably was in big trouble. It didn't stop Daryl from trying a second and third time, though. After the third, he almost threw the phone in the air before quickly reminding himself it wasn't his phone he was going to break. He put it back down on the desk, took his motorbike's keys and took the entrance door to go outside. He cursed out loud when he didn't see the motorbike to its usual parking spot, remembering he had left it in the back of the workshop where Rovia was still most likely showering. Daryl had to go to the station and talk to Cook. He proceeded to get back inside and get out again through the backdoor, hoping not to rush into a naked Rovia. The thought had his face burnt hot. Once outside, though, he realised with horror that Rovia wasn't there. There was a small door that led to an alley at the very back and Daryl thought he must have left through there. But why would he have left all his stuff, including his phone, at the workshop ? He would take care of Rovia later, he decided. For now he needed to see and ask Cook what the hell happened to his brother and to the girl, Colleen Stafford.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

Colleen had been asleep for most of the day when Cook woke her up, too bruskly for her taste. It was done, they had made Brans' arrest public, and took care of the people that had forced her to shoot Evan Shaw. She was free to go home, finally. But going home meant being interviewed by friends, family, journalists and all the rest. She would have to tell her story to dozen of people for what seemed like the hundredth time. Most policemen that had interrogated her saluted her bravery and her decision not to kill Shaw to save her own skin. But Colleen wasn't sure she had really been brave. She mostly didn't want to have blood on her hands, partly because the part of her that feared Hell was a real place didn't want to ever go there once _she_ dies. Little to do with bravery, really. But they all applauded her standing up to criminals, almost as if she was the hero in this story, and she had smiled through all of this heart heavy with shame. Cook had been the only one not to say anything but the formal stuff to her. This man unsettled Colleen, it was like he knew the truth, could see inside her heart and head and read her mind. After he was done talking in that so formal, almost robotic voice of his, somebody knocked at the door. Cook's office was small and it took him only a second to get to it.

When Colleen saw the man's face, she shrieked. She knew him, it was the brother of the man that had wanted her dead. She had seen photographs of him and Merle Dixon with their parents on the wall from when they were younger when Dixon and his men had kidnapped her and took her to the younger Dixon's place. Cook welcomed him coldly. It was evident he was mad at him about something. They exchanged a few words as if she wasn't there, talking about Paul, her neighbour, and Merle's whereabouts. Cook refused to tell the man where his brother had been taken.

 

"He's dead." Colleen said hesitantly.

 

She couldn't say why she had told him, but not telling him seemed like the wrong thing to do. Also, she didn't like Cook very much and knew he wanted to keep this information under wraps until they come up with a good excuse as to why and how Merle Dixon had died, which Colleen thought was wrong, too. She had lied about the reasons why she didn't kill Shaw, but she wasn't ready to lie for everything. Some truth had to come out from this horrible case.

At first, the younger Dixon didn't say a word, didn't react, didn't do anything but stare at her. 

 

"Daryl..." Cook began.

"How ?" The man seemingly called Daryl asked her.

Colleen tried hard not to meet Cook's eyes. "Officer Julian Brans killed him during a fight. He shot him in the head. That's the only reason they couldn't cover for him this time and had to arrest him. Otherwise, they would have hidden to everyone his implication in the murder attempt like they did with every dirty little things he's done all these years." After a heavy moment of silence, Colleen got closer to Daryl and added : "I'm sorry about your loss. But your brother wasn't a good man and he ruined my life."

 

With that, she left the room, not even thanking or saying goodbye to old police agent Cook or Daryl. She was going home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very late update, I'm so sorry. If you waited all this time, thank you from the bottom of my heart.


	11. Not lose everything

It had almost been a year since Daryl had first arrived at the Princes' when the news of him having to go back to his family spread around the other children. Paul had naively thought he was going to be here until he turned eighteen. He had almost forgotten Daryl still had a family, unlike him. The judge had made its decision, he was " _free"_ to go back to his " _real"_ home, as if here had never been real or like he had been a prisoner. Paul didn't want to let him see how upset that had made him, so he kept his mouth shut and proceeded to ignore his imminent leaving altogether.

He played a little game, privately, in which he and Daryl would never have to leave this place he had come to consider his home. It worked wonderfully at first, he almost wasn't sad anymore. He kept coming to the library everyday after school. All was well, they had a lot of fun and it was like Daryl wasn't going to leave, ever, like he had once promised.

But then, one Monday morning, Daryl joined Paul in his bedroom, smiling like he never had before. Paul noticed Daryl had his hair very shot again, almost as short as the day he had first set foot here, and somehow, it told Paul all he needed to know. So, he wasn't surprised when Daryl told him the time had come for him to go home.

 

"Ain't like we won't see each other again." he said, becoming serious again when he saw Paul brooding.

"When are we going to see each other again, then ?" Paul asked, his voice slightly breaking under the overwhelming emotions that was seizing him.

"I don't know." He answered with a much less enthusiastic voice. "Soon."

"But I don't know where you live."

"I know where you live, don't I ?"

"But you said you wouldn't leave me…" Paul complained, his eyes starting to burn with tears.

"I ain't leaving you. Just leaving this damn place."

 

Paul didn't say anything for a moment. He just stared at him, searched his eyes to see if he was lying or if he was being sincere.

 

"Do you promise you'll come and visit as soon as you can ?" Paul asked, not fighting back his tears any longer.

 

Daryl held him in a tight embrace to comfort him.

 

"I will." he whispered.

 

Satisfied with the answer, though not less sad, Paul let go of his friend's warm embrace to go back to the book he was reading before Daryl burst in. Neither of them liked saying goodbye. Neither of them said anything. Paul didn't look up when Daryl left the room, the house and his life.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

When Paul had turned 12 that winter, he had got a letter from Daryl for his birthday. It would be the first and last letter from him. Deep down, Paul had known this would happen, but it hurt all the same. At 16, laying in his bed at the group home he had joined recently, he read the letter again. The paper was cracking on the edges and the colour had faded to a light yellow. And it smelled of all the group homes he had been to, of the Princes' big house, of Daryl.

 

"Dear Rovia,

I hope you're having a good one on your birthday.

Mrs and Mr Creep probably got you a present. If not, they're idiots.

Happy birthday.

Daryl Dixon."

 

Although there was no explanation for why Daryl had not tried and visit him like he had promised, Paul had still been happy when he got the letter. Back then, it meant that Daryl had not forgotten about him. Now, on the other hand, it just left Paul with all kind of unanswered questions.

 

When Paul turned 18, he thought of Daryl again. He could still remember his face, but of all the time they had spent together at the Princes, Paul only remembered a few moments here and there. Of all the conversations they had had on books and life, Paul remembered only empty words and false promises. Soon, Daryl Dixon had become a far away memory of a time that had been like a dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paul came back from his walk to the workshop at 4.10PM according to the clock hanging on the wall, to find the place empty. He couldn't have been gone for more than 30 minutes, so where had Daryl gone to ? Paul hoped the other man didn't go and look for him. He should have said something before he left. He should have told Daryl he'd needed to get some fresh air, the sight of alcohol had had made him sick. But he already had a hard time talking about his alcoholism to his psychiatrist, let alone a man he hadn't seen in more than 20 years.

Paul's brow furrowed when he heard his phone buzzing against the desk. He silently wished for it to be anything but work. He had called in sick the other day, too sick to get out of bed, and had lied so terribly he swore he could have heard suspicions in his boss' voice. So, having to lie and make up some excuse for a second time was stressing him out. But he didn't know the number that had appeared on his phone screen when he picked it up. At first, all he could hear was the sound of someone breathing heavily.

 

"Who is this ?" Paul demanded to know.

"Um..." a female voice began. "Paul ?"

 

Paul's heart skipped a beat when he recognised Colleen's voice. He couldn't speak, or move, or function at all for a whole minute and just listened intently to what Colleen had to say to him. She explained him everything, how she had been forced to shoot a man she didn't know in exchange for her own life, how Brans was involved in this, how mad he had been when he learnt the guy wasn't dead. When she spoke, she did it with such weary a voice Paul suspected she had had to tell it multiple times already. While he listened, he silently admired her for standing up for herself and not kill an innocent man. He could only hope he would have done the same thing in her place.

He cut her off mid-sentence, suddenly remembering Sasha and how worried she had been about her. But Colleen told him that Sasha was the one that gave her his number and that she was presently at her place. She would stay there for some time. She informed Paul that Sasha had come back to town the moment Colleen had called her when Paul mentioned Sasha having left to his brother's, clearing up the confusion.

 

"Anyway, what happened after Brans learnt you didn't kill Shaw ?" Paul asked.

"You remember the day we were called in to the station ? He asked me to stay while you and Sasha left. He had told me beforehand to lie in front of you and tell the police that I'd seen the shooter, to declare it was a man. Once you two left, he told me I couldn't go home, that they'd be looking for me there, that I should keep a low profile for a while."

"So, Brans kept you safe ?"

"Kept me safe ?" she said, half laughing, half sobbing from what Paul assumed was stress. "He was supposed to take care of Evan Shaw, but he forced me to do it for him. Keeping me safe wouldn't have been necessary if it wasn't for him and Dixon."

 

At Daryl's surname, Paul sat down.

 

"Merle Dixon ? So, he's in on this, too." Paul concluded, saddened to hear this. He knew Daryl hoped that deep down his brother wasn't the one behind this whole dirty business.

"You knew him ?" she asked him.

"Sort of. Wait… _knew_ him ?" Paul realised with horror. "What do you mean, _knew_ him ? He's… is he dead ?"

"Yeah. He was going to kill me and Brans but Brans and his colleagues got to him first. After Dixon had heard that Shaw was still alive, he had sent his people after me. It didn't take them long to find me. If it wasn't for the police, however dirty some of them can be, I'd probably be dead."

 

Paul felt truly sorry for Colleen but he couldn't help but worry about Daryl at the moment. Did he hear about his brother's death ? Was that the reason why he had left the workshop so abruptly without leaving a note ? When silence was starting to settle in between them, Paul jumped at a sudden heavy knock on the workshop's door. He excused himself to Colleen and hung up. He opened the door after the second, more insistant knock.

It opened on a woman Paul guessed was in her early thirties, dirty blond hair and eyes as green as grass during summer. It was quite mesmerizing.

 

"Where's he ?" she asked impatiently.

"Daryl ?"

"Yeah. Daryl." she mimicked him.

"I don't know." Paul admitted. "I can… take a message if you want." he proposed.

"What, he got himself a secretary now ?" she laughed, though her laugh was anything but cheerful. "He whines about needing money and he hires a guy to take messages for him. You know what you tell the fucker when you see him ? Tell him Samantha Rose said hi and fuck you."

 

With that, Samantha Rose just left. Paul glanced back at his phone and saw he got one message from Sasha : "Hey. Daryl called from the station. Looking for you."

He looked up and watched the woman named Samantha leave absently, not knowing what he should do. He could go home, have a _real_ shower and sleep for 3 days straight, not thinking about anything and enjoy his new found freedom. Or he could go to the police station where Daryl was. Paul debated for a few seconds more, then made his decision.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

Daryl was sitting in front of station's entrance door on the stairs that led to the place, still trying to process the fact that his brother was dead. The mere thought left him completely numb. He couldn't even cry, or shout, or do anything but sit down and wait. But wait for what ? For who ? He had just lost everything and everyone he loved. Tears threatened to fall then, but he was too tired to try and hold them back. He began to sob, which attracted unwanted attention from some people around him.

He may have had stayed there an hour, or two, or three. Daryl could honestly not say. He didn't care. He looked at the sky, blue as Rovia's ocean blue eyes.

 _Rovia_.

How he wished the man was here now. Him and his sarcastic comments. Him and all the resentment he felt towards Daryl.

Daryl thought of the old days at the Princes'. He thought of the boy he had promised not to leave and did. But there was so much Rovia didn't know. Daryl left him, but he had his reasons.

It didn't make him feel any better, though.

He contemplated going back inside the police station. He didn't want to be alone anymore and Cook would comfort him, he knew, like the father he had tried to be for him when had been younger. He got on his feet and that's when he saw him. Rovia froze when Daryl's eyes met his. It was like time had stopped for a minute.

The tension soon became unbearable to Daryl. He had to say something.

 

"My brother's dead."

"I'm sorry." Rovia said, and it seemed genuine.

"The guy that did it is in jail. Nothing I can do. He's gonna pay for what he did, so… I don't know what to do."

"When my parents died…" Rovia began, getting emotional himself. "I didn't know what to do, either. In fact, there was nothing to do but to accept it."

 

After a moment of silence, Daryl was the one breaking it again.

 

"I'm sorry, too." he said. "I broke my promise."

"Yeah. You did." Rovia's voice was hard again. "You were all I had back then, you know. I thought you were my friend. As naive as that sounds, I truly believed it."

 

Daryl wanted to tell him he was right to believe it, but he didn't trust himself to speak without ending up crying again.

 

"Sasha said you were looking for me." he continued after he had calmed his growing anger. "I'm here."

"You're here." he echoed Rovia's words. "Why ?"

 

It seemed to have got Rovia confused. He didn't answer right away.

 

"What do you mean, why ?" he asked Daryl eventually.

"You're safe now. And you're still mad at me. So, why did you come ?"

"Colleen said your brother was killed. I..." Rovia began frantically. "I couldn't just… disappear. I couldn't just leave you." After a brief pause he went on. "I'm not like you. When I care about people, I can't abandon them."

 

Daryl took a deep breath, he tried not to shout at his friend when he spoke, but failed.

 

"You think I _wanted_ to abandon you ? I had problems of my own ! My fucking dad almost killed my mother ! Then, he died, and I... I had to take care of her ! She was always depressed and… I was scared that if I left her, when I'd come back… I'd come back to a fucking dead body. And you wanna laugh ? She fucking killed herself, anyway ! I chose her over you, because she was my mother, and I lost both of you. Truth is, I regret ever going back home. I shoulda listened you. I shoulda told the judge I wanted to stay at the Princes'. Maybe I wouldn't feel like a fucking wreck right now."

 

He had been yelling so loud people on the street had stopped to look at him while others had walked faster away from him and Rovia. He looked back at Rovia, then, and saw the tears rolling down his face and onto the pavement. He had got closer to Daryl without him noticing. His warm hands wrapped Daryl's almost completely and his eyes, once so cold, looked at Daryl as if they were seeing something precious. It moved Daryl beyond words.

 

"You didn't lose me. I'm here, OK ?"

 

Daryl didn't know what to say to that. As a thank you, he took Rovia into his arms and held onto the other man as tight as he could without harming him. They both smelt of sweat but Daryl didn't care, he would have stayed into the smaller man's arms all day if he could. It felt good to be so close to another human being. Daryl felt like a heavy weight was lifting off his shoulders. He hadn't lost everything, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys ! So, this is it. Again, I'm sorry for the long wait. I really hope you enjoyed it and are satisfied with the ending. I won't lie, I'm tempting to do a sequel of this one day. I've got a lot to do so it wouldn't be now but I'm thinking about it. Hope you liked it *fingers crossed* and thank you to all of those who left comments and kudos. It really helped me finish this fic that I love ! Xxxx


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